Communication Error
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: Hardwired, #4. *Oliver has a technical problem. Felicity has a whole other kind of problem.* More Hardwired, now with printers, awkward vigilantes, and a John Diggle POV. Written for TheBookJumper's Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon. Prompt: sent to the wrong printer. Complete.


**Title: Communication Error  
Word Count: 2928**

 **Notes:** I know I just dropped a line yesterday (well Wednesday I guess; it's technically Friday here but I haven't been to bed yet), but here I am, back to give you more fic. ;)

When TheBookJumper posted this prompt, I _knew_ I had to use it, and I _knew_ it had to be in Hardwired. (Hardwired prompts have a tendency to jump out at me.) So I ran with it. After a brief moment of questioning my sanity, I mean. Fortunately, it kept its mouth shut so I could finish this.

Thanks to Jenn for helping me spiral further into this madness.

Y'all are awesome and I love you. Always. ;)

* * *

Diggle knocks on Oliver's door before entering, wondering if his partner in crime is in a better mood or if he's going to just be surly again. Something has been off about the boy ever since he ran off a few weeks ago to take down John Nickel—a small-time housing guy in the Glades. Or maybe it was since Felicity nearly died; he can't read Oliver any better than he could two months ago when the kid ditched him every other night.

"Hey, Oliver, there's—" Diggle starts, but he cuts himself off abruptly in an attempt to suppress a chuckle.

Oliver glares down at a portcom screen in front of him like he wants to put arrows in it, gripping the device in his hands so hard his knuckles are white. With exaggerated gestures, he taps the screen, brows knitting together more with every second. He waits after one last press of a button, glancing over at the other side of the desk. When nothing happens, he sends the portcom skittering across the floor.

"And you said the shatterproof model wouldn't come in handy," Digg notes aloud.

Turning his glare on Digg instead, Oliver motions at the device. "Maybe _you_ can make some sense out of that thing," he growls. "I've been trying to print from it all day, but it says it printed it once and asks if I want to do it again." Running a hand across his forehead, he adds, "It's for our next target. I need a paper copy, John."

Despite his sense of self-preservation insisting he shouldn't get involved with Oliver's tech issues, Digg picks up the tablet and starts the printing dialogue himself. He's no Felicity Smoak, but at least he's in touch with technology. The blonde brings another thought to mind: "Why haven't you called Felicity about this?"

With a pointed look, Oliver only replies, "Felicity isn't my personal technician, Digg." The disdain in his voice is clear, as though his partner insulted him somehow. "Walter contracted her for a big project and she's been working long hours." His head tilts the side. "Longer hours than usual." Frowning, he adds, "You know how she gets over her work. I haven't talked to her in two weeks."

Digg nods to himself. That explains _everything_ about his partner's mood in the last fourteen days. There was once a time where Felicity was just the witty cyborg at the repair shop, but that was a long time ago. Not that Oliver will ever admit it, but he misses her when work pulls her away. Sometimes John wonders if the boy ever had a friend who would talk to him about important, _real_ things, or if Felicity was the very first.

But he doesn't say those things aloud. Things like that tend to scare the hell out of Oliver; after five years away, Digg thinks the kid might be out of practice when it comes to admitting he needs people in his life. Whatever it is, he has a tendency to throw up walls and defenses when people get too close. Talking about it now will only make him run.

After they lapse into an amiable silence, Diggle finally realizes why the printer isn't working. "What the hell is an Epson?" he asks, reading the name of the printer out of the selection box.

It earns him a snort, Oliver's features lightening immediately. "That's the name of Felicity's printer," he explains. "She names all the devices on her network. Says it makes them easier to identify." When Diggle can't think of an answer that Oliver will actually appreciate, the vigilante adds, "Epson was the first printer, apparently."

The smile slips of John's face. "That's what you printed to, man," he tries to explain. "You didn't select _this_ printer. You sent it to _Felicity's_."

Lifting a shoulder, Oliver replies, "I'll just change it to my printer, then."

Diggle sighs. Sometimes he forgets how much technology has changed and how far behind times Oliver really is. "No, Oliver," he tries again, slower this time, "you printed _vigilante_ documents to _Felicity's printer_."

Eyebrows knitting together, Oliver stares at Digg as though he just explained two plus two equaled five. "I'm not close enough to be on her wifi network," he argues. "We're twenty miles out of the city. Her shop is ten miles in." Crossing his arms, he adds, "I realize she's Felicity, but even _she_ can't have a network that reaches _that_ far."

By the time he finishes, John is already shaking his head. "That's how the _old_ system worked, man," he tries this time. "Cloud networks are the thing now. As long as your portscreen is connected to the 'Net—which it is—and her systems are connected to the 'Net—which they are because it's Felicity—you can print to her printer. Doesn't matter if you're two feet away or in Australia. It will print on the device you choose."

Under different circumstances, watching it dawn on Oliver's face would be funny, but there's nothing funny about Felicity receiving compromising vigilante documents. Oliver's expression clearly says _oh shit_ so he doesn't have to. "So everything I printed on Martin Somers is now at Felicity's shop," he concludes in an even tone.

Digg has to hand it to the man: he nods once, cool as ice even though everything about his expression is utter frustration. "The question is how you're going to pick up thirty pages from her apartment without her knowing," John decides.

Oliver rises to his feet, reaching for the jacket draped over his desk. He meets John's eyes with an expression that he probably wore before jump-starting Felicity's heart by sticking her wires in an electrical socket. Diggle does _not_ like that look. "That's a pretty easy solution," is all he answers.

"It's going to be kind of suspicious if Oliver Queen picks up thirty pages on a vigilante target," Digg points out. "Felicity isn't stupid. If she watches the news at all, she knows what kind of guys you take on. She'll know Somers is right up your alley."

Throwing him a look, Oliver replies, "That's why I'm not going as Oliver Queen."

* * *

Felicity bolts upright in bed, glaring at her clock. Two a.m., and she has to get started again in three hours. Between her normal shop hours and Walter's Tempest thing, sleep is a luxury right now. So far her searches haven't turned up anything, and she's turned over almost every dark secret on the 'Net. But if it isn't on the 'Net, it doesn't exist—and Tempest most certainly exists. The trouble is _finding_ the damn thing.

She sighs before grumbling to herself, "Brain, initiate shut off sequences. You're keeping me up at night." It would be nice if it would listen, but so far all she can do is think about Walter's wild goose chase and the fact that the Singhs' faulty starship is down in her hangar again. Between no sleep, work frustration, and not speaking to Oliver _once_ in the past sixteen days, she's really starting to hate this month.

Just as she snuggles back under the blankets again, a crash comes from her shop.

Her eyes open immediately, and she reaches for her glasses on the nightstand, even though they won't help her now. The room is too dark for her _real_ eye, and her synth-eye has perfect vision. Not to mention that it has a night vision option. Apparently Walter gives out the good upgrades.

Even though she knows it's the plot of every horror movie she's ever seen, Felicity descends the stairs, following the sound. Unlike the unfortunate blonde in the horror movies, though, she makes sure to open a dialogue box for the police on her retina display. If she needs to, she can patch her video in to them so they can send reinforcements.

After descending the stairs into the dark shop, she winces at what sounds like her new analyzer crashing to the ground in the parts room. It's followed by a nasty curse in a low, deep voice, and she releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. The least Roy could do before coming after parts in the middle of the night is send her a comm. If she's told him once, she's told him a thousand times.

Walking into the room, she rubs at her eyes, not bothering to flip the light switch. Her synth-eye is doing just fine on its own. "Roy, if you're going to raid my parts locker, I told you—" Her voice dies in her throat as she looks up at the intruder, words stopping as her feet are suddenly cemented to the ground. The man in front of her is nearly half a foot taller than her assistant.

And then there's the small matter that Roy doesn't wear a hood or carry a bow.

She finds it wholly appropriate that her night vision is green as she gapes at him. Even with her fuzzy optics, there's no mistaking that _the Arrow_ is in her shop right now. Honestly, he's everything she expected from the news feeds on the 'Net: tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular enough to be a threat _without_ the bow in his grip. His jaw is covered with a short beard and his eyes with a dark mask. The descriptions don't do him justice.

Her identification software tries to get a hit off his features, recording his height, the width of his shoulders, even trying to get a match on his face. Nothing matches, but it makes her close the window she opened with the police. The _last_ thing she wants is to accidentally identify a pro-cyborg vigilante to anyone trying to stop him. Still, _something_ about him feels familiar.

"Is this the part where you tell me I've failed the city?" Felicity asks him, trying to stifle a yawn.

A garbled sound leaves him, and one corner of his mouth twists up in a familiar grin. "I doubt you've ever failed anything in your life," the Arrow replies, voice masked by a modulator.

Felicity's eyebrows knit together, trying to make sense of that. Her identity as owner is a well-kept secret; she doesn't advertise her name and she keeps her presence on the 'Net as minimal as possible. He wouldn't know that she's a notorious overachiever unless they've met before. Suddenly that data on his height and build seems more interesting than ever, so she sets the software to compare against other people she's met.

"I _haven't_ ," she agrees, crossing her arms. Except maybe the parts he's broken—she failed to use them in a new device, but she can't be blamed because the Arrow is a complete klutz. Before any of that can slip out, she adds, "I've wanted to meet you for the last two weeks, you know." He only blinks at her, head tilting to the side. "John Nickel." The name feels like a lead weight off her chest. "He's the reason I'm a forty-sixty split of patented designs and, well… _me_. You stopped him when the cops couldn't. So thank you, I guess."

His response is so slow that Felicity decides no one has ever thanked him before. There are hundreds of cyborgs that might be able to own their own modifications now because of him— _someone_ should have thanked him for that. But getting justice for a man who killed hundreds and stole nearly _half_ of her body away… well, part of her wants to hug him.

The other part is afraid of being karate-chopped in the throat.

She motions toward him. "I'm grateful for your crusade and all," she continues, leaning against a work table, "but what are you doing here?" Her eyes go to the wake of computer parts behind him, as though he's tripped and stumbled over them. Somehow Felicity bites down on the laugh that threatens to bubble over. "Besides destroying my supply of parts, I mean."

The Arrow stands a little straighter, and her lips press together. "I'm not destroying your supply," he assures her, even though the evidence behind him suggests otherwise. Instead, he motions to the far corner of the room. "I needed your printer."

Sighing, she turns off her night vision before flipping the light switch. There isn't much improvement with the flickering, pitiful lighting, but maybe it will keep the Arrow from tearing through her store of parts like Godzilla through Tokyo. "You can't _use_ my printer," she replies. A heartbeat later, she waves a hand in the air to clarify, "I mean, you _can_. I don't mind. But you don't have the _ability_ to print to it right now. I'm on a secured cloud network. You'd have to have an access code—" She stops short when she sees the pages in the printer.

And she's never even _heard_ of Martin Somers.

Whirling, she charges back toward him. He immediately backpedals, as if _Felicity_ is the terrifying Starling City Vigilante. "How the hell did you do that?" she demands, flopping the pages down on a nearby workbench. "This is an _encrypted network_. It's impossible to breach. _ARGUS_ uses this software."

Instead of answering, he reaches for the papers in her hand, but she wrenches them back. A part of her recognizes that if he really wants the damn research, he could knock her over the head and take them away, but the part that needs answers is beyond caring.

He doesn't make any move to stop her, though—unless she counts that ineffective-yet-mildly-terrifying glare. "I…" Only a nonsensical sound follows, and he looks just as surprised by his loss of words as she feels. He might put the fear of God into Starling's criminals, but so far he's been _almost_ as terrifying as a fifteen-year-old in a Halloween superhero costume. "Well… I guess…" He blows out a breath, pacing a brief circle. "I, um, I have this friend." He crosses his arms. "You could call them a technology genius."

Holding up the top page, she replies with a quirked eyebrow, "Then why is the first page from a collaborative encyclopedia on the 'Net?"

The Arrow chooses not to reply this time, opting to stalk over like a panther and tear the page out of her hand. He stares down at her, and only then does Felicity realize how tall seventy-three inches is. With her bare feet on the ground, he's every bit of a foot taller than her. His eyes are piercing, boring into her as though he's trying to stare through her.

For the first time, Felicity realizes she's only in a pair of printed pajama pants and a tank top. _All_ of her arm is on display, including the grotesque area on her shoulder where flesh and metal meet. While her skin is mostly unblemished from the skin grafts she received, the tissue of her bio-synthetic joint is scarred from the friction of early prosthetics.

It's not the kind of thing she likes to show off on a first date.

Not that she and the Arrow are on a date. Or that she's _been_ on a first date in this side of the century.

The point being that she tries to avoid situations where she might show off her modifications in all their glory, but staring down a pissed, awkward vigilante was _not_ on the agenda for tonight.

"Thank you for letting me use your printer," he finally growls at her under that synthesizer, and she tries not to roll her eyes. Her audio software can pull out the natural tones from that, too. It's like he isn't even _trying_. He gathers the rest of his papers before adding in a softer tone, "Get some rest, Felicity. You look like you could use it."

The search parameters flash a result, but she dismisses the notification without opening it. At this point, it's not like she really needs the cyborg parts of her to identify the Arrow. "Are you going to go after that guy tonight? Martin Somers?" she calls after him.

The Arrow turns. "No," he replies after a moment. "Why do you ask?"

"Good," Felicity decides. "I'm all for you putting arrows in bad guys and saving cyborgs, but you look dead on your feet." She turns, motioning for him to follow. "You can sleep on my couch—I have some of your clothes here that you left. Come on, Oliver—let's _both_ get some rest."

It's silent for so long that she thinks he's gone, but finally he replies, "How did you know?" He at least has the decency to turn off his shitty modulator, and she smiles at the familiar speech patterns. It feels like an eternity since the last time she's heard his voice. It sounds better than ever.

Turning with a grin, she retorts, "Green leather doesn't disguise how much of an idiot you are."

A laugh escapes him, and this time Felicity doesn't hesitate to wrap her arms around his neck. He freezes under her touch, but thaws out a moment later. The bow drops onto the table as his arms wind around her waist. She hears him take a deep breath, muscles relaxing a moment later. It's a weird hug because he's all Arrow-y and smells like leather and sweat, but that doesn't matter. Felicity might have limited experience because no one wants to hug a cyborg, but it might be the best hug she's ever had.

So low she can barely hear it, Oliver whispers, "I missed you, too, Felicity."


End file.
